


It's All About Perspective

by Fierygirl0 (orphan_account)



Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fighting Equals Flirting, Languages, M/M, Teasing, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-02
Updated: 2014-06-21
Packaged: 2017-11-15 11:47:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/526974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Fierygirl0
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ichigo is a translator at a New York airport that has just had a massive storm go through, canceling and delaying almost all the flights. It's going to be a hell of a day. Grimmjow is the adopted son of a wealthy businessman, stuck in the airport due to his flight being canceled, and looking for entertainment that he finds in the shape of one extremely frustrated, irritated, airport staff member. Not having to see his bastard of a father, plus an attractive spitfire? It's going to be a great day.</p><p>Grimmjow/Ichigo, AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It's going to be a shit day. Yeah, one of _those_ days. The kind of day I fucking dread, where everyone is irritable and bitchy and not a single goddamn thing works right. Where, inevitably, I end up on the last fucking threads of my patience because everyone, somehow, needs me at the same time and no one seems to understand that I'm a single goddamn human and can't be in seven places at once.

Like I said, one of _those_ days.

And you know how I can tell? It's because I walked into the airport – I'm a translator, working for them – and the entire fucking board of flights had one of those two bright and shiny red words next to them, the ones everyone hates.

' _Delayed'_ , or, even better, ' _Canceled'_.

Fuck my life.

* * *

" _Kurosaki Ichigo, please report to holding room three."_

Fuck. I've been on my feet for eight hours straight, running from one room to the next and generally just trying to keep the whole damn place from turning into an angry mob, and right as I turn away from one Japanese man, - _"Yes, sir, they really do mean all your metal."_ – right as I'm about to finally, _finally_ , be able to sit down for a few minutes – this. I stifle a scream of frustration, turning on my heel and trudging, dutifully, out of the main lobby and into the side corridors. As I approach the room I glare heavily at the guard lounging against the entrance of the door.

"Renji, this had better be goddamn important."

He grins at me, totally unconcerned at my mood, and straightens up off the wall. "Yeah, yeah. Japanese, though he doesn't look a damn thing like it."

"And?" Renji gives me a quizzical look and I almost snarl. "Why's he in there?"

Renji's grin widens and he snickers, "he slapped Rukia's ass."

What? The guy lived to tell?

"I didn't think Rukia had that much control."

"Yeah, well, I don't think even Rukia would go up against this guy, you'll see." He steps aside, pulling open the door, and I smooth out my scowl to presentable levels, stepping inside.

The guy – he's maybe twenty-six – is leaning his chair back on two legs, hands behind his head, but he falls back to all four when I walk in. He'd be just over six feet tall if he was standing, and if he is even vaguely Japanese in origin then it's a tiny, tiny, part of him. His eyes are blue, to start with, and his hair is equally vibrant but lighter in color. It's piled in a disorderly ' _I just had great fucking sex and don't care if you know_ ' tousled mess on his head and strands are hanging down into his eyes. He's wearing decidedly American clothing in the form of tight jeans and a white tank-top that stretches over a definitively muscled chest, and there's a black leather jacket hung over the back of the chair. The door shuts and he grins at me, blue eyes narrowed and broadcasting confidence and anticipation.

" _Hey, beautiful._ "

He speaks in flawless Japanese but there is something that is just not, quite…

" _Come to give me a stern talking to about morals and proper behavior?_ "

…Right…

" _I'll listen to you talk all fucking day so long as you do it on your knees._ "

Oh, motherfucker. He's got an _American_ accent. My eyes narrow to slits and I stalk forward, leaning to brace my hands against the table and get right in the bastard's face. I speak quietly, in just barely accented English.

"The next time you feel like fucking around do it at a different fucking airport with a different fucking person. Get it?" His eyes widen in surprise but narrow again just as quickly, grin slipping to a smirk.

His next words are in English, and his voice is deep and rough. "Pretty and feisty, I like it. Wanna fuck, pretty boy?" Only the press of the metal table against my hands keeps me from punching the asshole, but it's a damn close call. It's been a long time since anyone so blatantly messed with me – at least four years. This kind of shit hasn't happened to me since high school.

"Not likely, fucker." I reply, shoving off the table and turning to the door. I throw it open, making Renji jump and spin into the doorway with his red eyes startled.

"He speaks English perfectly fucking well!" I snap at the redhead and yeah, it's a little unfair of me, but it's been a long fucking day that isn't near over and I don't have the fucking patience to deal with the blue haired bastard. If I spend another fucking minute in the room with him I'm going to hit him, and I can't afford another mark on my already spotty record.

" _Bit wound up there? I can fix that for you, pretty boy._ "

I thank small miracles that he's switched back to Japanese, so the words are just between us. I'd never hear the end of it if Renji caught wind of even half this conversation.

" _Good hard fuck will loosen you right up._ "

I glare at the bastard, uncaring of Renji at my back, and answer in the same language, " _Sorry, I make a point not to fuck arrogant bastards._ "

He laughs as I turn away, pushing past Renji into the corridor.

" _Takes one to know one!_ "

" _Fuck you!_ "

" _Exactly!_ "

To hell with this day.

* * *

"Know how long we're gonna be stuck here, Forte?" My voice is low, barely audible over the buzz of the airport crowd, but my friend – by loose definition – hears me anyway.

"Yep. Girl at the desk told me it'll be at least a day till the next plane over to France. We're all kinds of fucked."

I snarl softly, elbows braced on my knees. "Of fucking course it will." I straighten up from the seat – and those pieces of shit were made by some sadist, I swear – and stretch my arms over my head. "Fuck this. I'll call Aizen, let him know. Get our stuff together, we're fucking outta here."

Il Forte nods, blonde hair hiding his face for a moment, and follows me to standing. "It might take awhile, Grimmjow."

I grin, leaning over to pick my jacket up off the backpack at my feet. "I'll entertain myself."

Il Forte winces at my response, gesturing at a passing airport hostess to catch her attention. "Please don't get yourself arrested again." I shrug and back away as the hostess, looking hassled as all fuck, approaches.

"Yeah, yeah, I won't."

I wander off, fishing my phone out of my jeans, flipping it open with a flick of my wrist. A few more presses has it calling and I raise it to my ear.

" _Grimmjow, shouldn't you be on a plane by now?_ " My father answers the phone in French, an amused but almost exasperated note to his voice, and I switch from English without a thought. It's a side effect of being adopted by an eccentric billionaire and growing up on a near constant traveling schedule – I know way too many goddamn languages.

" _Yeah, that's what I'm calling about. Something fucked up all the flights, next plane out to France won't leave 'till tomorrow,_ " I explain.

He chuckles; I can practically hear the shake of his head. " _Just stay in New York, Grimmjow. I'll see you next time we cross paths._ " I almost sigh in relief. My adopted father, Aizen Sousuke, is a right bastard, and while I wouldn't dare to flat out refuse to do as he says, anything that keeps us apart is a good fucking thing. " _I have a meeting to be at. I'll speak with you later, Grimmjow. Do try to keep out of trouble._ "

I snort, " _Yeah, see you later,_ " then the call ends with a click and I lower the phone, closing it and shoving it back in my pocket. Now to keep myself entertained till Il Forte can retrieve our luggage. I cast my eyes around the lobby of the airport, scanning for something, anything, interesting, and lo and behold, I find something.

There's a man in his early twenties maybe, wearing an airport staff uniform, dark blue dress slacks and a collared blue shirt with a black tie loosely knotted around his neck. He's speaking with a Japanese businessman to the side of one of the metal detectors. The brat's obviously Japanese in origin, though not full blooded if his wider than normal – for a Jap – eyes are any indication, though he hits an average height at somewhere close to five-eight. Not to mention his bright fucking orange hair which just _can't_ be natural, though it's not like I'm one to talk about weird hair colors.

He looks just as hassled as the rest of the staff and his brow is drawn down into a scowl – he's obviously struggling not to slide into full blown glaring.

Fascinating.

Well, there's a way to entertain myself. I walk closer and catch the edge of their conversation. They're speaking in Japanese, and the orange haired man is explaining airport procedures and that _yes_ , _the other staff really had meant all metal he was carrying_ , with forced respect in his voice.

Well, it'll be damned easy to get his attention. They probably don't have more than one employee who speaks Japanese.

I back off, turning towards a different part of the lobby, and see my chance approaching me. There's a staff member approaching. She's a tiny black haired girl, with a much taller red haired guard at her side. As I pass I lean down – _Christ_ , she's tiny – and slap her ass. She immediately whirls on me with her eyes narrowed to slits and mouth open. She starts yelling at me, not that I bother paying any attention, and the guard stops and turns, eyes raising to me.

" _What's the matter, midget?_ " I ask her in Japanese, grinning. " _Did I offend ya?_ " The guard sighs, stepping between the two of us and motioning for me to follow him.

My lucky day.

* * *

When the guy enters the little room the guard escorted me to, I grin. There's tightly controlled irritation in the brown eyes and the scowl is deeper than it was earlier.

" _Hey, beautiful,_ " I say in Japanese, " _come to give me a stern talking to about morals and proper behavior?_ " His head just barely cocks towards me, like it's an unconscious reaction, and I can't help baiting him. " _I'll listen to you talk all fucking day so long as you do it on your knees._ "

He stiffens for a brief moment and then his eyes narrow to slits, oh man is he pissed.

Perfect.

He moves towards me and I watch the way he walks; all grace and power even though he's tense with anger. He spreads his hands on the table and then leans across so that he can get right up in my face. He speaks in English, and his voice is a low, venomous, hiss.

"The next time you feel like fucking around, do it at a different fucking airport with a different fucking person. Get it?"

Hot damn. My eyes widen at the guy's voice, all husk and anger, and I legitimately begin rethinking my previous baiting. Fuck yes, I _would_ listen to him talk all day, just as long as I got to be the one to make him talk.

I lower my grin to a smirk, eyes narrowing. "Pretty and feisty, I like it." I revert back to English, no point in trying to keep the charade since the guy'd seen right through it, somehow. I'll have to ask him about that later. "Wanna fuck, pretty boy?"

I see his jaw clench, his hands scrape against the metal table, and fury burst to life in brown eyes before he reins it in. "Not likely, fucker."

He backs off, moving to the door and throwing it open, and I stifle a laugh as the red headed guard spins into the doorway, clearly startled. "He speaks English perfectly fucking well!"

The red head winces and I can't help grinning again. The orange haired guy is too fun to mess with, and if I can badger him into a fuck, all the better.

" _Bit wound up there? I can fix that for you, pretty boy._ " I do switch back to Japanese, as a favor to him. I doubt he wants the guard knowing what I'm saying. " _Good hard fuck will loosen you right up._ "

He turns his head to glare at me, snapping back at me in Japanese. " _Sorry, I make a point not to fuck arrogant bastards._ " I laugh as he turns away, shoving past the guard and into the hallways outside.

" _Takes one to know one!_ "

" _Fuck you!_ " he yells back, already out of sight, but that doesn't stop me answering.

" _Exactly!_ " I can't stop the laugh that leaves me, looks like I've found something new to play with.

What an awesome day.


	2. Chapter 2

I smother another sigh, feigning interest as the small woman standing in front of me babbles on in Spanish, an angry tilt to her eyebrows. Really, there's nothing I can do about her luggage being lost in one of the many postponed flights. Either it shows up or it doesn't, and I can't magically make it appear faster or go find it myself. I'm a translator, not one of the many other multipurpose staff members who actually handle the luggage.

Eventually, as my already frayed temper rises higher, I interrupt her.

" _I'm really sorry, ma'am, but there's nothing I can do. I'll let my manager know about your missing luggage but there's not much_ _ **anyone**_ _can do about it right now. If it shows up, assuming it has something with identifying info, we'll contact you_."

She scowls at me and gives an angry huff before turning on her heel, without sparing me so much as another word. I grind my teeth, but bite back the urge to chase her down, turning to continue my interrupted walk to the staff break room.

I'm exhausted, hungry, and my temper is the shortest it's been in months, due to a certain blue haired bastard that had decided I was fun to mess with. Why today, of all days? Does the universe really hate me enough that it thinks I should have to deal with not only the insanity of the repercussions of this storm, but that blue haired bastard too?

I trudge into the staff room and halt in my tracks, eyes widening in surprise before narrowing in anger I can't even begin to control.

That _motherfucker_!

"What the fuck are you doing here?!" I hiss at the blue haired man lounging in an armchair midway through the room, and my temper is high enough that I barely manage to say the words in English instead of my home language; Japanese.

He turns his blue eyes up to me and grins, leaning forward in the chair and resting his elbows on his knees. "Sitting, waiting. Figured you'd stop by sooner or later, and you're just _too_ much fun to fuck with."

I manage to unfreeze myself in such a way that I _don't_ leap across the coffee table separating us to kick his ass, nice as that sounds right now. I stalk across the room to the mini kitchen and, specifically, the fridge, snatching my lunch from within its depths.

"This is off limits to anyone but staff, bastard. Get out."

He laughs as I cross the room and settle onto the farthest edge of the single couch, tossing the bag with my lunch onto the low coffee table.

"Money'll get you anywhere, and I got myself this little visitor badge from your manager. Isn't shit you can do about it, really."

Unfortunately, he's right. I can see, now that I look, the tiny white sticker on the front of his shirt with the word 'visitor' written in dark red font. The next time I see Urahara, I am kicking his fucking ass for enabling this bastard. I don't know and don't care who this blue haired fuck is or why Urahara would _do_ something like this, but it is _so_ not alright.

"Motherfucker," I hiss between my teeth, my right hand rising and rubbing over my eyes. I am so amazingly sick of this day.

"Yunno, you've got quite the mouth on you," the bastard says, and I lower my hand and look up at him incredulously.

"Like you're one to talk," I snap back, "besides, I only get nasty when people fuck with me, sound familiar?"

I know I've said something horrendously wrong when that infuriating grin widens, blue eyes lighting with amusement even as they narrow. "Can't wait to see that, my place or yours?"

"I don't fuck assholes, didn't you hear me the first time?"

"Of course you don't," the bastard says as I reach for my lunch and fish the contained can of soda and plastic wrapped sandwich from within the paper bag, "people fuck yours."

After a moment of stunned silence where I stare at him - and he grins right back - I tighten my grip on the sandwich in my right hand - but not too tight, because if I ruin it, then I won't get to eat for at least another six hours and I'll end up murdering someone - and glare at him, mentally willing him to fuck off and go die somewhere.

"Go to hell," I snap, unwrapping the sandwich from its protective layer of plastic.

"I'd need to sin first, but I'm sure we can take care of that, right?"

Dear _**god**_ , does he never stop?

I seriously have to resist the desire to jump across the table and attempt to strangle the irritating as all fuck bastard of a human. He looks strong, absurdly so, if the visible muscles on his arms are any indication, and no one who isn't prepared to fight riles someone like he's doing, but I'm fast, and I know way too many dirty tricks. I could take him; it wouldn't be the first time I've taken down someone bigger and stronger than me. But then Urahara would give me that disappointed look, and then he'd have to fire me, and then I'd have to move back in with my psychotic father. Fuck.

It takes me a few seconds to control myself enough to speak, grinding out, "Back the fuck off."

His grin vanishes in a heartbeat, eyes going from amused to studying, and I almost let out a sigh of relief when he doesn't answer me. I set the sandwich down and lean back against the couch, tilting my head back, closing my eyes, and struggling to control my breathing. My hands come up to tunnel through my hair, pressing against my scalp hard enough to wake dull pain at the pressure. The pain helps me focus and - even though by all rights it shouldn't - eases the tension in my shoulders and back, helping me fight down the remaining urge to attack the blue haired bastard.

Old tricks, ones I haven't used in years and hoped I would never have to again. Of course right when I'm settling down this fucker comes along and reminds me of all the things I'd either carefully forgotten or tamped down. I guess that's karma for you.

"You're a fighter." I flick my eyes open at the statement, looking over at the bastard.

"What?"

He shrugs and leans back, raising his arms over his head and stretching over the back of the chair. "I've never seen anyone but fighters - the ones who really live for it - restrain themselves like that. I figured you were one, it's in the way you walk."

I stare at him for a moment before lowering my hands. I know what he's talking about. When someone is trained to fight, or just picks it up, it starts to show in the way they walk. The fighting lifestyle bleeds into your everyday mannerisms, and you start to unconsciously incorporate the balance, grace, and aura you've picked up from fighting into the way you move. I thought I'd managed to stop doing it, but apparently it's snuck back in.

Of course, if he knows enough to spot it, he must be one too. If I cared or thought it would be a good idea to indulge the bastard in any way, I'd probably be curious.

"Yeah, I am. Can I eat in peace now?" My tone is sharp and nasty, but fuck if I'm going to try and tamp it down. I've spent all fucking day pandering to other people, and I'll be doing it for a while after I eat too, so there is no fucking way that I'm going to be nice to the bastard that has invaded my break.

"No," he says bluntly, grin returning. _Bastard._ "Got a name, pretty boy?"

"Yes."

I take a bite of the sandwich, studiously attempting to ignore the blue-haired bastard grinning at me from across the table. I manage two more bites before he speaks again.

"Gonna tell me?"

Oh, _fuck_ no. I answer by shooting him the nastiest glare I can muster with my mouth full of wonderful, life-saving, sandwich.

"Then it's good it's on your name-tag, _Ichigo_." Fuck. I'd forgotten I was wearing that. "Seriously, fucking _strawberry?_ "

No. He better not fucking _dare._ I have had so much shit about that and I am in no fucking mood for him to poke at such an irritatingly sensitive subject.

His grin ramps up a notch and his blue eyes narrow. "That's fucking adorable."

I'm throwing my soda at him before I can even think about it, a snarl on my lips and fury burning bright in my chest. He ducks aside, standing in the span of a brief moment, and I rise to meet him.

No, fuck this. I am fucking done being baited and toyed with. I've been dealing with people all day, not to mention this blue-haired motherfucker, and I am done playing nice. If he wants to fucking fight then bring, it, on! It'll be fucking great, I'll get to kick his ass and then I'll feel _so_ much better.

There's a brief moment of tension, and then he's jumping over the table at me, swinging for my head. I duck under the punch and meet him as he lands, hooking a leg behind his and throwing my shoulder into the center of his chest. He falls backwards with a startled grunt, slamming down onto the table, and it crunches and breaks beneath his weight. I slam a foot down, aiming for his ribs, and he rolls out of the way and smoothly back onto his feet. I clench my hands to fists, my mouth twisting into a snarl.

The blue-haired bastard grins at me. There's not much room here, most of the space is taken up by the two armchairs and the splintered remains of the table, and I can probably use that to my advantage. He's bigger than I am, significantly, he'll take up more room. Not to mention he's in jeans, which will be significantly more constricting than my slacks.

"Just gonna stand there, _strawberry?_ " he asks, and any semblance of a plan flies straight out of my head. No, _fuck_ this bastard.

I leap at him, wanting nothing so much as to feel my hands around his throat. We crash together – C _hrist,_ it feels like I'm running into a brick wall – and as I grip the white fabric of his tank-top and wind back for a blow to his ribs, his left hand curls through the hair at the base of my skull and _yanks._ I give a startled cry of pain, and then the breath leaves me in a rush as he slams an open palm into my sternum. My hand automatically releases him, and he shoves me backwards, still grinning. I come down across the arm of the couch, and he's on me faster than I can recover.

He pins me down with both hands on my chest, my back arched over the arm of the couch, my legs split around his hips. As I start to snarl, clawing upwards at his arms and trying to get out of this god-awful position, he pulls one hand back and something tightens alarmingly around my throat. The strip of black cloth in his hand gives the source away.

My fucking _tie_.

He pulls harder and it tightens further, pressing down on my windpipe and cutting off my ability to breathe. I rake red lines down his biceps as my hands fly to my throat, trying to pull the strip of fabric away from my neck. It doesn't work, it's too tight and I'm too late, and I only manage the barest gasp of air before it cuts even that off. I struggle, but the knot in the tie is pulled too tight to unravel and his grip doesn't budge under my shoves.

As panic sets in from the lack of air, something else rises beneath it.

Once upon a time, I could do this in the blink of an eye, at whim, and I probably still could, if I tried. As it is, I haven't done it in years, but the almost trance-like state still overtakes me as easily as breathing. In an instant, the panic is gone. As if from a distance, I calculate our positions. The way his weight is distributed, my lack of leverage, the deadly noose around my neck. In a moment, I settle on a course of action, and in the next moment, I enact it.

I bring my legs up in a feat of flexibility that would make my trainers proud to this day, folding myself nearly in half, and slam both feet into the blue-haired bastard's chest, dead center. He flies backwards, slamming against the wall, and I pull myself up off the chair. Without the tension on it, the tie comes off easily, and I draw in a deep breath. It hurts, but it's nothing I can't handle. I discard the strip of fabric and take a few moments just to breathe as the blue-haired man straightens up, one hand to his chest.

He's still grinning, blue eyes bright with excitement even as his chest heaves. "That's more like it," he says with a laugh, "Knew there was a beast in there somewhere, just had to coax it out."

I brush aside the anger that stirs at his words, automatically tamping it down. I can be angry later, now there is only _him_ , and he needs to go down _now_.

Almost in tandem, we both step forward. He throws a punch at my head and I slide beneath it and closer to him, slamming my right fist into his stomach. He gasps in pain, hunching over in automatic response, and I take a handful of his white tank-top and throw him backwards, onto the ground. I follow as he falls, not releasing the grip I have on his shirt. I trap his right arm beneath my left knee, settling over his chest, and pin his other arm to the ground with my right hand. Lastly, his potential struggles taken care of, I close my left hand around his throat. He bucks beneath me as I tighten my grip, but I hold him on the ground. He snarls up at me, that grin finally leaving his lips, blue eyes narrowed. The look flickers as his throat works against my hand, his chest heaving in a futile attempt to breathe.

"Ichigo, _stop!_ "

I jerk, the familiar voice, the familiar _command_ , abruptly yanking me out of my trance. My body automatically obeys even as my mind hesitates, releasing the blue-haired bastard and standing. He gasps in a breath beneath me, coughing as his throat protests the sudden influx of air.

"Ichigo, step back, _now_."

I do it, moving blindly backwards a few steps as guilt rises heavy in my chest. I look over at the doorway, at the narrowed grey eyes of my boss, Urahara Kisuke. He gives me a look that speaks _volumes_ , and I wince and cringe a little. He's disappointed, and he has every right to be. I nearly did and probably would have killed the blue-haired man, and even though he's a bastard, that's not an excuse.

"Sir, are you alright?" Urahara asks cautiously, moving across the room and extending a hand to help the other man up.

To both of our surprises, the blue-haired man laughs. "Are you kidding? That was fucking fantastic!" Incredulity wipes out the guilt, and I stare at the other man in disbelief as he waves off Urahara's hand and stands without help, rubbing at his throat. The grin is firmly back in place, and even the near brush with death hasn't dulled the excitement in his eyes.

"Hey, strawberry, up for that fuck now?"

Just like that, all my anger is back. Urahara makes a warning sound as I step forward towards the irritating fuck, and I halt in my tracks.

" _Really?!_ " I ask in incredulous fury, not totally sure if I'm referring to the bastard's suggestion or Urahara's refusal to let me beat the living crap out of him. I make a helpless sound of frustration and gesture wordlessly for a moment, before making another sound and whirling away, unable to look at the fucker and maintain my tenuous hold on sanity.

From behind me I can hear Urahara speak, his voice low, "Sir, I am _so_ sorry for my employee's behavior," and my hands clench.

 _My_ fucking behavior? The bastard had baited and sniped and teased and _I'm_ going to get all the fucking backlash?! Life is _so_ not fucking fair.

"I will of course arrange all appropriate recompense for this incident."

"Why?" the bastard asks, and my head whips around to stare at him. He's got a vaguely puzzled look, blue eyes fixed on Urahara. "S not like I didn't know what I was getting into," he says with a shrug. He looks at me and grins, "Didn't think it'd take so long to get you to snap."

I struggle for words, but can't find any. Urahara glances between us a few times.

"So, you have no intention of pressing charges then, sir?"

The bastard snorts, "Of course not."

That's... Well that's good. Of course, I'm still going to get the lecture of fucking _doom_ from Urahara later, but at least that won't include me getting fired (hopefully), or dragged to court. That could be bad, to say the least.

The relief in Urahara's voice is barely recognizable, but we've known each other a long time, so I pick up on it. "That's much appreciated, sir." He turns to me, moving across the room – carefully avoiding the remains of the table – and lightly grasping my upper arm. "Ichigo, _go home._ I don't want you back till you have control of yourself, understand me?" His voice is quiet, just for the two of us. "We'll talk later."

I wince and give a silent nod, he lets go. With a last apology to the blue-haired bastard, he sweeps out of the room. The door closes with a soft thunk, and I let my gaze move over to meet blue eyes. The anger is all but gone, buried under guilt and exhaustion. "Why'd you do that?" I ask after a second, turning to face him.

He shrugs, his hand falling from his throat. "What, you think I get a kick out of getting random bastards fired?" He leans down, picks up my tie from the ground near his feet, and tosses it at me with a grin; I snatch it out of the air automatically. "How long's it been since you had a real fight?"

"I don't know, years?" I answer, mirroring his shrug as I shove the fabric of my tie into my pocket – there's no way in _hell_ I'm putting that back around my neck. Three years and seven months, actually, but he doesn't need to know that I can remember it down to the date and time it happened.

"What about a fuck?"

 _Christ_ , he just doesn't give up. I meet his gaze, too tired for anger but fighting down the hysterical urge to laugh. I don't voice the answer to his question – that it's been _way_ too long – but I do ask one of my own in return after several long moments of silence. "What's your name?"

His grin ratchets up another notch. "Grimmjow Jaegerjacques."

And he's mocking _my_ name?

Whatever. I'm hungry, I'm tired, and my day really can't get any worse, right? Maybe this arrogant asshole can make it just a _little_ better.

'Well, _Grimmjow_ , you buy me dinner, and _maybe_ you'll get lucky. Deal?"

His answer is instantaneous.

"Deal."

* * *

I stretch my arms over my head, feeling my spine realign with several satisfying cracks, before slumping back into the chair I'm sitting in. It only took me a few mentions of my family's stature, and a short spout of bullshit about how pissed I was to be delayed here for so long, to acquire an official name-tag giving me access to the staff room from the orange-haired brat's manager. I might not be the bastard my father is, but I can bullshit with the best of my family.

At least they've got a couple comfortable armchairs in here, and a couch. Makes perfect fucking sense that the staff would keep all of the comfy chairs to themselves, bastards. It's not a particularly big room, maybe built for five or so people at a time, but it's definitely built to relax. So for the sake of my continued amusement, I'm betting that the Japanese brat will show up here. It'll happen.

Sure enough, it's barely minutes before I'm pulled out of my idle staring at the table by a furious hiss.

"What the fuck are you doing here?!"

I look up, my grin forming instantaneously. If anything, he looks even more furious than before, and it's _delicious_. I lean forward in the chair, resting my arms on my knees. "Sitting, waiting. Figured you'd stop by sooner or later, and you're just _too_ much fun to fuck with."

Understatement. Even just those words stiffen the brat's shoulders, and for half a second I'm absolutely certain he's going to jump straight across the table separating us and do his very best to throttle me. Unfortunately, he loosens just a little bit and stalks his way across the room to the fridge. I have to bite my tongue as he leans over to snatch something from one of its lower shelves, pulling the fabric of his slacks tight against his ass.

"This is off limits to anyone but staff, bastard. Get out." His voice is calmer than the initial hiss, but there's still an obvious undercurrent of anger.

I laugh at his demand as he straightens up with a brown paper bag in one hand, all but slamming the door shut before backtracking around the coffee table to sit at the corner of the couch farthest away from me. Not that it's more than about seven feet separating us. The bag, containing food of some kind I assume, gets flung onto the table.

"Money'll get you anywhere," I say with no small amount of satisfaction, "and I got myself this little visitor badge from your manager. Isn't shit you can do about it, really." I was fully prepared to bribe the manager, but turns out just threatening was enough. Go figure.

I watch his eyes fall to my chest, to the little white sticker on my equally white tank-top with the word 'visitor' written on it in red ink. The brat's gaze turns back to the table, and his right hand rises to rub over his eyes.

"Motherfucker," he hisses between his teeth.

"Yunno, you've got quite the mouth on you," I comment. Pissed he may be, but I only know a couple people who swear like he does. One is me, and the other is my step-brother Noitora.

His hand drops, and those dark brown eyes turn towards me with obvious incredulity. "Like you're one to talk," he snaps. "Besides, I only get nasty when people fuck with me, sound familiar?"

I know what he's _trying_ to say, but it's too perfect an opportunity to pass up. My grin widens, and I narrow my eyes as I fight to keep from laughing. "Can't wait to see that, my place or yours?"

"I don't fuck assholes, didn't you hear me the first time?" To his credit, his response is instant. Too bad it's worded so poorly.

"Of course you don't," I say as the brat reaches into the bag and retrieves a can of soda and a plastic wrapped sandwich, "people fuck yours."

It's the first time I see his eyes widen in complete shock, mouth falling open just the tiniest bit as he stares at me, stunned. I grin at him for the couple of seconds it takes for him to recover, his eyes narrowing to furious slits and his lips pulling back to bare teeth at me.

"Go to hell," he snaps, his gaze turning down as he sets the soda on the table and carefully unwraps the sandwich from the plastic surrounding it. It's a little dented, from his grip I'd bet, but still completely salvageable.

"I'd need to sin first, but I'm sure we can take care of that, right?" The retort comes without me even thinking about it, and I mentally bless my tongue. Sure, my mouth gets me in trouble with Aizen, the bastard, and with some of my siblings too, but I fucking _love_ it.

Again, I'm sure the brat's about to leap across the table and try to strangle me. I can see his eyes flick over me, the slightest hint of something analyzing in his gaze before its gone. His shoulders are stiff, the muscles in his neck tight.

"Back the fuck off," he grinds out, and there's something very _serious_ in his tone, beneath all the anger. My grin drops, and my amusement fades as I watch him.

He very carefully sets the sandwich down before leaning back against the couch and tilting his head back. His eyes flick closed, and his hands rise to tunnel through his hair. His grip looks tight enough to hurt, and as I watch the tension ease out of his shoulders, sudden realization clicks for me.

Hot _damn_ , have I found myself a fucking prize. Oh, the brat might have been fun to fuck with before, but now I'm really _interested_. I've watched so many people do just what he's doing, focusing themselves with self-inflicted pain. The brat knows how to fight, and not just that, but at one point that was his life. He's good at it. Oh this is fucking _fantastic_.

"You're a fighter," I say, and his eyes flick open and look over at me.

"What?" His tone is a little confused, and I shrug and lean back, stretching over the back of the chair I'm in.

"I've never seen anyone but fighters – the ones who really live for it – restrain themselves like that," I comment, and another piece of the puzzle clicks into place. I'd pinned the brat as graceful when he'd first come into that interrogation room, and strong in a physical sense, but now I know why. It should have been fucking obvious just from how he moves. "I figured you were one, it's in the way you walk." Yeah, bullshit with the best of them.

He stares at me for a second before lowering his hands; it's another few seconds before he answers me. "Yeah, I am. Can I eat in peace now?" His voice is sharp, mean, and his eyes have returned to being narrowed.

"No," I answer instantly. "Got a name, pretty boy?" Of course, the second after I ask it, my awareness decides to clue me into the small badge pinned to the right side of his chest. _Ichigo_ , that's a hell of a silly name. Brat's either got fucking sadistic parents, or oblivious ones. At least now I know why he's a fighter. No way a kid with a name like that gets through school without being bullied.

"Yes." He takes a bite of the sandwich, his gaze fixed on the table. I let him take two more bites before continuing the conversation.

"Gonna tell me?" He glares at me, not answering, and I give a tiny shrug. "Then it's good it's on your name-tag, _Ichigo_. Seriously, fucking _strawberry?_ "

He instantly freezes, completely stiffening even as he swallows the bite he'd been chewing on. Oh, I've hit the fucking jackpot. Right on the money, the brat obviously got all kinds of picked on for his name. _Now_ I've got him, now I'm going to get the fight I really want.

"That's fucking adorable," I purr, my grin widening a little as my eyes narrow.

He doesn't even speak. Between the span of one second and the next, the brat's soda is flying at my head. I duck away, and shoot to my feet the moment it's safely over my head. He stands a moment after me, a snarl on his lips. It's pure, base, fury, and it's fucking _beautiful_. Even in the terrible dark blue uniform, with that dumb tie against his chest, I can see the fucking gorgeous danger underneath.

This is going to be _fantastic_.

After a moment, where he makes no move to attack, I take the initiative. I've never been good with waiting, or patience. I jump over the table, swinging a fist at his head. He ducks under my punch, and instead of stepping back like any normal person, steps towards me as I come down. His left leg slides behind mine, and his shoulder slams into my chest with pretty considerable strength. My breath leaves me in a startled grunt, and I topple backwards, off-balance. I really should have expected that.

My back hits the table, and it breaks beneath my weight with an awful splintering noise. The remains dig into my spine, but it's really nothing serious. That foot coming down on my ribs will be, though. I roll out of the way, back towards where I'd been sitting, and smoothly rise back to my feet. His hands clench into fists, and his lips twist into a snarl that makes anticipation rise sharply in my chest.

I grin down at him. He's smaller than I am, in height _and_ weight, but that doesn't necessarily give him a disadvantage. I've had Ulquiorra hand my ass to me enough times not to underestimate people smaller than me. Not that it really fucking matters to me who wins this. I'd love to, but I'm more or less alright with him beating me too.

"Just gonna stand there, _strawberry?_ " I ask, baiting him, and the rush of fury that lights in his eyes is intoxicating.

He leaps at me, crashes into me head on, and I brace myself against it. He's strong, but his weight isn't enough to even make me stagger. One hand clenches in the fabric of my tank-top, the other winds back, and I grab a handful of the hair at the base of his neck with my left hand and yank downwards. He voices a startled cry of pain, and I slam my opposite hand – open palmed because I don't want to really kill him – straight into his sternum. He staggers, air leaving him in a rush, and I shove him backwards with a grin. He falls backwards across the arm of the couch, and I go after him.

I shove my way between his long legs, pinning him down with both hands on his chest. This isn't what I'd pictured when I'd imagined him with his legs around my hips, but it's still fucking _awesome_. He snarls, and oh I _hope_ he's this wild when I'm fucking him, and his nails dig into my arms as he struggles against me. In a sudden bout of inspiration, and vindictiveness, I close my right hand around the tie still lying loosely against his chest and pull back.

His eyes widen as the cloth constricts around his neck, and I stifle a hiss of pain as his nails rake down over my arms, flying to his throat. He tries to pull the cloth away, but only gets in a brief gasp of air before I pull it tight again. He fights me, his hands shoving and clawing at anything near them. I can see the panic in his eyes as his chest heaves, as he fights for air. I'm not going to kill him. Give it a couple more seconds, then I'll claim my victory and let him breathe again.

I kind of expected more, honestly. That level of anger, I'd expected one hell of a fight. This kind of an ending, after just the minute or so of combat, is almost disappointing. It's a good distraction, but not really a challenge. There has to be more to the brat, if he was willing to go up against someone with my kind of musculature.

Before I can blink, I'm flying backwards. I slam against the back wall of the room, my chest protesting whatever the _hell_ just happened. I lift my eyes in time to watch his legs come down as he straightens up off the arm of the couch, and realize he kicked me with both legs, dead center. Christ, that requires one hell of a level of flexibility. He yanks the tie off his throat, dropping it on the ground, and draws in a deep breath. His brow furrows in pain, and I know from experience that first breath hurts like a bitch, but he doesn't give any other sign.

I straighten up against the wall, lifting one hand to press against my sore chest, my mouth still twisted in a grin that I can't control at this point. He watches me, and I notice after a moment something incredible. There's no anger in his eyes. They're narrowed, yeah, and his brow is still drawn downwards, but the light of fury that had been in his gaze is completely gone. They're cool, completely focused. Oh, _yes_. I've seen eyes like that before.

"That's more like it," I say, laughing. "Knew there was a beast in there somewhere, just had to coax it out." His eyes flash with brief anger, but then it's gone just as instantly.

Yes, yes, _yes_.

He steps forward a fraction of a second before I do. I swing at his head and he slides underneath as though it's the most natural thing in the world, his fist slamming into my stomach. I gasp in pain, hunching over a little in reaction, and his hand curls into my shirt. He throws me to the ground before I can recover, and he goes down with me, his hand never leaving my shirt. I hit the floor hard on my back, my arms splaying to either side. His left knee settles over my elbow, grinding it into the cheap carpet, and his right hand pins my left arm down as well. His weight settles on my chest, and his left hand closes around my throat.

His fingers are steel, and he barely moves as I buck underneath him to try and dislodge him. The only movements are his unconscious adjustments to my struggling. I snarl up at him as his fingers tighten, the grin leaving my lips. His eyes don't flicker, his fingers don't even twitch, and the tiniest thread of fear starts in my chest. He doesn't seem to have any intention of letting me go. Fuck, maybe I _did_ push this too far.

My eyes flicker, black creeping in around the edges of my vision.

"Ichigo, _stop!_ "

His fingers flex around my throat, and in the next instant I'm released. I gasp in a breath, immediately coughing it back out as the air grates against my abused windpipe. I force my eyes open.

"Ichigo, step back, _now_."

The brat does it, guilt obvious in his eyes as he avoids looking at me. He looks over at the doorway, and I follow his gaze to his manager. The blonde man, Urahara if I remember right, gives the brat a look that has so many levels of meaning I can't even start to understand it, but it's enough to make the younger man cringe.

"Sir, are you alright?" The manager moves towards me, offering me a hand to help me up. Like I need it.

Actually, that was pretty fucking cool. Not like it's the first time someone's almost killed me, not even the first time I've almost been strangled to death. Whatever. I laugh, the excitement and amusement returning along with my grin.

"Are you kidding? That was fucking fantastic!" I wave off the manager's hand and get to my feet, rubbing a hand over my throat. It hurts, yeah, and I'll have some nasty bruises, but it's nothing that won't heal. Besides, the brat's going to have some pretty similar bruises around his own neck.

"Hey, strawberry, up for that fuck now?" There goes my mouth again.

The brat's brown eyes light with that same intoxicating fury, and he takes one step forward before a sharp warning sound from his manager freezes him in place. There's something more there than just a manager/employee relationship. Urahara's got one hell of a level of control over the brat, more so than just a boss would.

" _Really?!_ " The brat snarls with equal measures of incredulity and fury, his gaze flicking between me and Urahara. He makes a helpless sound of frustration – that I hope to _god_ I can make him repeat later 'cause it's fucking hot – and gestures wordlessly for a moment before making another sound and spinning on his heels, turning his back on me.

"Sir, I am _so_ sorry for my employee's behavior," the manager says, and I see the brat's hands clench. "I will of course arrange all appropriate recompense for this incident."

My eyes turn to the manager. "Why?" I ask plainly, my grin falling, and from the corner of my eyes I can see the brat's head snap around to look at me. "S not like I didn't know what I was getting into," I explain with a shrug, before looking over at the brat and grinning. "Didn't think it'd take so long to get you to snap."

I really didn't. With the fucking disaster of this airport, and his obvious temper, I figured I could throw a few jabs at him and he'd just _leap_ at the chance to try and kick my ass. It was significantly harder than I thought it would be.

"So you have no intention of pressing charges then, sir?" The manager's tone is cautiously hopeful, and I snort.

"Of course not."

I might be a fucking, self-admitted, bastard, but I try not to make other people pay for what I want to do. I'll goad anyone I can into a fight, but I don't turn around and accuse them of assault. That'd be fucking retarded, and cruel. I'm violent, but I leave the manipulations to the rest of my family.

"That's much appreciated, sir." The manager crosses the room, carefully avoiding the splintered remains of the table, and grasps the brat's upper arm. He says something, too quietly for me to hear, but the brat winces and nods. The manager turns back to me. "Again, I'm so sorry, sir." I shrug, and after a moment the manager sweeps across the room and out of it.

The door closes, and the brat looks over at me. The anger is mostly gone from his gaze, replaced with guilt and exhaustion. He just looks _tired_ , not that it's really a surprise. I can only imagine how long he's been working, and I know how absurd it is out there.

"Why'd you do that?" he asks, and I shrug and drop my hand away from my neck.

"What, you think I get a kick out of getting random bastards fired?" Fabric catches my eye, and I lean down and retrieve the brat's tie from the ground. I ball it up and toss it at him, and he smoothly, and clearly automatically, snatches it out of the air. One more clue to the beast within. "How long's it been since you had a real fight?"

He answers with a small shrug, shoving the tie into his right pocket. "I don't know, years?" There's a flicker in his eyes, as he looks down at the ground, that makes me think he's lying, but I don't call him on it. If it has been years, that's pretty damn impressive.

"What about a fuck?" I ask with a grin, unable to help myself. He meets my eyes, exasperation flickering in his eyes. He doesn't answer me, and that's really telling enough. Christ, how long's it been since the brat got laid? I am _so_ down to fix that.

"What's your name?" he asks eventually, and the tiny yield makes my grin widen a little.

"Grimmjow Jaegerjacques," I answer, and one of his eyebrows rises. Hey, at least my father didn't make me take the name Aizen. Grimmjow Aizen just really doesn't have the same ring to it.

"Well, Grimmjow, you buy me dinner, and _maybe_ you'll get lucky. Deal?"

Fuck, _yes!_

"Deal."


	3. Chapter 3

This is probably a really awful idea.

I pop the last button of my uniform shirt through its accompanying hole and pull it back over my shoulders. My chest aches a little as my shoulders roll, the slight pain reminding me that I'm probably going to have a decent bruise in the middle of my chest. Though, granted, Grimmjow's going to have a _much_ bigger one. One open palm into the sternum just doesn't compare with a full force kick from both feet. Not to mention we'll both have some pretty nasty bruises around our necks, as soon as they get around to forming. I'm going to get some really weird looks over the next few days.

Yeah, this is probably a really fucking terrible idea. But it's not like this is the first time I've been friends, or more, with someone who kicked my ass. Not that I'm remotely close to friends with the bastard. He's just buying me dinner because he ruined my lunch, and nearly cost me my job. That's all. Period.

I ball the shirt up and toss it across the room and into the laundry basket with the ease of practice. All of it, muscle memory. My pants follow, once I extricate the belt from them. I take a moment to just lean against my locker, letting the exhaustion bleed through me, before pushing myself back up and opening it. I reach in, retrieving the set of clothes I'd originally driven here in this morning from its depths and quickly redressing. The plain black t-shirt sticks close to my skin, and the worn black jeans, approaching grey now, require a few wiggles to properly get into before I can secure them with the belt. I tug the heavy black boots over my socks and lace them up, double knotting the thick ties to make sure they don't come apart by accident.

I snag my wallet and sweatshirt from within the locker before closing and locking it again. The wallet gets shoved into my back left pocket, and I let the sweatshirt hang over my arm. After a brief check to make sure my cell phone is still within its pocket, I turn and walk across the room to the exit. I shove the door open, reentering the staff's break room.

Grimmjow is sprawled out on the couch, and his blue eyes look over at me as I enter. His mouth twists into a wide grin, that I'm starting to suspect is just the natural state of his face, as he watches me. His eyes drag over me slowly, purposefully, raking downwards with intent obvious enough that it almost feels physical. I don't have the energy to really react, so I just let him do it, as I move around the splintered remains of the table and towards the couch.

It's almost nice, actually. It's been a while since anyone has looked at me with such obvious desire, even if that's all it is, and even longer since someone's been so obviously willing to act on it. I've got absolutely no doubt that Grimmjow would jump me if I gave the _slightest_ hint of acceptance, and it's not a _bad_ thought per se. Yeah, he's a bastard, but he's a good looking bastard and he's fully aware of it. Now that my desire to kill him is mostly gone, I can appreciate his looks a little bit. For now.

Okay, maybe I might be considering being a little more than 'guys who tried to kill each other' with him. But unless I get some miracle burst of energy, which food just might do for me, there's no way I'm even considering anything tonight. Let the fucker buy me dinner, let me recover from the absolute fucking mayhem this day has been, and then we'll see.

"So?" I demand, when he doesn't get up. "You owe me dinner, bastard." My tone lacks the bite I'd like it to have, but it'll have to do.

His gaze travels upwards, from where it's been lingering on my crotch, back to meet my eyes. "Where d'ya wanna go?" he asks, heat in his voice, but doesn't make any move to rise from the couch.

There's a good question. While I'm really tempted to make the bastard pay through the nose and take me somewhere _really_ expensive, I'm not dressed for it, and I've never been particularly comfortable in high class places anyway. Not that I'm real convinced money means much to this fucker.

"Somewhere quiet," I settle on, "with good steak."

Yeah, that sounds _perfect_.

Grimmjow's grin slides upwards a little, and I step back as he gets to his feet in one smooth movement. "Done. My car?"

My jaw tightens a little before I can stifle the reaction. I'm not totally sure I like the idea of being without a car, just in case I want out of this night. Granted, I also don't much like the idea of Grimmjow in _my_ car. I pause for a moment before answering.

"Sure, if you supply the money for a cab if I want one."

"Done," he repeats, without so much as a flicker of hesitation. Yeah, money clearly doesn't mean fucking _anything_ to him. "You good to go?" I nod, and his grin fades down some as he reaches into his pocket and retrieves a flip phone that makes me raise an eyebrow in skepticism.

That just doesn't match at all with the rich bastard image. Shouldn't he be carrying around the latest iPhone or a similar absurd piece of technology? Fuck, _my_ phone is better than that one, and I don't come close to keeping up with the recent trends.

He catches my look, following my gaze, and gives a shrug as he punches some command into the old style buttons. "I kept breaking them," he grunts out, "fucking fragile pieces of shit."

The phone rises to his ear, and I repress a snort of amusement. Yeah, I can see that. Would a newer phone even have survived the fight we just had? Maybe, but those screens seem to break at the slightest provocation. I get how a violent bastard like Grimmjow would just revert to the older, hardier, phones.

The call volume is turned up loud enough that when whoever he's calling answers, I can hear every word of it.

" _Yes, Grimmjow, all our things are recovered and in the car,"_ the man says with no preamble, _"are you ready to leave?"_

Grimmjow's grin returns, and he glances briefly at me. "Yeah, and I've got company."

The, _"Figures,"_ from the other side of the line is little more than a murmur, barely audible from my distance. _"I'll pick you both – or is it 'all'? – up at the front. Should I be expecting any angry followers?"_

"Not this time," Grimmjow answers, "and it's just both. See you soon." He flips the phone shut again, shoving it back in the front right pocket of his blue jeans, before looking over at me. "Lemme snag my jacket."

I turn and head for the door without a word, let the bastard follow me. I can hear the rustle of leather and then his footsteps behind me as he catches up to me at the door. I don't have to see it to know that he's staring at my ass, but the flicker of his eyes back up to mine when I glance back is confirmation. There's not a hint of shame in his gaze, no surprise there.

I take him the back way, along staff corridors, to avoid the mess that is the main lobby. Nobody's back here, not with how psychotic it is out there, which I'm glad for. I can avoid any really awkward questions that I don't want to answer. It's a longer walk, but it's also deserted and totally quiet apart from the dull roar of sound from beyond the doors leading back out. I get us as far out as I can, to within a hundred feet or so of the doors leading outside, before coming back out of the staff corridors. As expected, it's a total clusterfuck out here, and my jaw clenches as I eye the space between us and the main doors. If we hug the walls, we should get through more or less unscathed.

To my surprise, Grimmjow steps out past me, straight toward the doors and straight towards the mess of angry people. I swallow down my shock and hurry to catch up as he strides, confidently, with his head held high and hands in his pockets, right into the fray. And even more to my surprise, they part in front of him. Not much, not enough to be really noticeable to a less trained eye, but enough for him, and therefore me, to pass through without a problem, and without much deviation from the straight line to the door.

Huh. I guess being a six foot tall, built like a brick man, with a scary-to-the-average-person grin, bright blue hair, and a leather jacket is helpful sometimes.

It's not actually much of a space to travel, without the hazard of people, and we're out of the main crowd in under a minute. The doors part automatically for us, and we're out into another crowd. A smaller one, but even angrier to make up for the size. The sun is just starting to set, staining the sky orange beneath its cover of dark storm clouds, and the light is shining directly towards us, almost blinding in its intensity. Grimmjow takes a brief glance at the cars lined up along the curb, under one hand raised to shield his eyes from the sun, before a grin splits his face and he heads straight for a black limo at one end.

Really? I should have fucking known.

There's a man, in a well-fitting white dress shirt and tailored black slacks, leaning on the passenger door, his hands clasped loosely in front of him. He's got long, straight, blonde hair that cascades down over his shoulders and partway down his back, and as we get closer – aided by Grimmjow's magical crowd-parting technique – the man's brown eyes focus on us and he straightens up. He offers a thin smile, and opens the door behind him.

Grimmjow nearly shoves his way past the last few people, and I follow. He leans against the limo, grinning back at me. "Ladies first," he says, and I have to swallow back the urge to punch him, again.

"You're a dick," I snap at him, and the blonde man's eyebrows rise.

"Finally," the man says in a coolly amused tone, just this side of friendly, "someone else who recognizes you for the bastard that you are, Grimmjow." He gives me a genuine smile, extending one hand. "I am Il Forte, Grimmjow's all but official baby-sitter."

I shake his hand, as I wince. "Christ, I'm sorry. I'm Ichigo."

Il Forte laughs, as Grimmjow gives a small scowl. "Ah, you've spent more than five minutes in the lout's company, then." That coaxes a small smile from me. "If you know, why _are_ you here?"

I shrug, glancing over at Grimmjow. The scowl has faded, and the grin is back. It never stays away long. "He's buying me dinner," I explain. Il Forte's eyebrow arches, and he gives Grimmjow a skeptical look.

"Hm." The noise is just as skeptical, but he doesn't comment any more than that. "Well, regardless of Grimmjow's lack of tact, please make yourself comfortable. The sooner we're out of here, the better, as far as I'm concerned."

Yeah, agreed.

I turn back to Grimmjow, who's watching me, and raise an eyebrow. I very pointedly flick my eyes to the open door. With that kind of invitation, there is no way in _hell_ I'm getting in that car first. Let him bite his own fucking tongue.

He shrugs, grin turning to something vaguely wicked, and slips into the limo with ease. I can hear Il Forte stifle a snicker, and I glance briefly at him before following Grimmjow's lead and ducking through the open door. The interior is classic limo, with the leather bench that goes all the way around one edge and a bar stretching across the other side, directly to my right and beside the door. The drinks, and glasses, are carefully contained, alleviating any concern that they might go flying through the air as soon as the limo takes its first turn.

Grimmjow has chosen _the_ most inconvenient spot, right on the curve on the opposite side, and directly in front of the door. So I can either squeeze in next to him and be right by the door, or shove my crotch in his face to get past and sit elsewhere. Well, since I have no fucking patience or tolerance for his touch right now, crotch to face it is. Half bent over, I edge my way past him, carefully watching for any wandering hands. To my surprise, he lets me get past without anything but visual molestation. That's probably a good choice for his continued health.

I settle into the seat, keeping a good four feet between us, and set my sweatshirt to the side. My arms cross defensively, but he's sprawled with his legs and arms flung wide, clearly totally at ease. The door shuts, mostly cutting off the sound from the crowd outside, and it's only a few moments before I hear the driver's door open. The engine purrs to life, and the dark glass window separating us from the driver's cab slides down with a soft whir.

Il Forte looks back at us with the mirror, a small smile on his face. "So, where am I headed?"

"Cang's Steakhouse," Grimmjow answers, without a hint of hesitation.

My eyes widen very briefly, before I shut down the reaction. Cang's Steakhouse is one of those places that _celebrities_ have to wait in line for, and is all but impossible to get into unless you have an _absurd_ amount of money, regardless of how famous you are. I know of it, but I'd never even remotely considered the possibility of ever going.

"Alright," Il Forte answers, not a hint of surprise in his tone, "settle in, Grimmjow, Ichigo."

The black window whirs back into place, and the car starts to move. Slowly, haltingly, but we're moving. Given how many cars are out there, it's kind of impressive he could move out at all. Maybe he bribed the employees directing traffic to let him out first. I wouldn't be surprised.

"Impressed yet?" Grimmjow asks in a smug voice.

I look back at him. "Yeah right," I snort. Grimmjow's got no idea what my background's like. People having, and flaunting, money doesn't impress me anymore. "You can impress me by not being a violent jackass, and by keeping your fucking hands to yourself unless you want me to break something."

That much I mean. I don't deal well with people touching me without permission, or when I'm not expecting it. They tend to end up with bruises, if I'm just surprised. Broken bones, if I'm pissed. I do a pretty decent job of controlling myself, most times, someone with my kind of talents can't afford to just react without thinking about it.

"Consider me warned," he says with a grin, not looking at all worried. How the hell did I run into the one guy that I can nearly kill and he'll just bounce back, looking for more?

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" I ask bluntly, too tired to properly filter my thoughts before they reach my mouth.

He laughs for a couple seconds before answering me, blue eyes alight with anticipation and amusement. "I'm a violent jackass, that's fucking easy." He leans towards me, his grin turning vaguely wicked, and I resist the instinctual urge to scoot along the seat and away from him. "But I'm honest, and I'm fucking _gorgeous_ , and I'm so fucking _fantastic_ in bed that you won't want anyone else when I'm done with you." His voice lowers with the last claim, deep and fucking _sinful,_ and for a couple of seconds I really believe it.

My breath catches in my throat, heat rushing to my cheeks and eyes widening. God _damn_ that voice.

His gaze rakes over me, a sound almost reminiscent of a deep growl coming out of his throat, and I resist the urge to shiver. "The fucking things I'd like to do with you," he all but purrs, meeting my eyes again, "fuck you so hard you'll feel the ache for fucking _days_ and beg for more."

His gaze fixes on my throat as I swallow, and the brief respite from the intense blue of his eyes snaps me back to myself. What the _fuck_ am I doing letting him intimidate me like this? Long dry spell and fantastic voice aside, I'm not a fucking pushover. I'm a fucking badass, in fact.

"I don't beg for fucking anybody," I snap, eyes narrowing, "and I'm not going to just fucking lay there and take it." Not even the best fucks I've ever had, and I've had some _damn_ good nights, ever got that from me.

"Where's the fun if you do that?" he asks with a laugh, leaning back against the seat and, thankfully, out of my personal space. "You'll make me fight for it, right? Outside of fucking you, that'll be the best fucking part."

Arrogant, _bastard_. This is becoming quite the battle between how much I want – or need – a really good fuck, and how much of this arrogant jackass I can stand. After I eat, after I get the time to drag myself out of this pit of exhaustion and hunger, then I'll choose how much more of this bastard I can tolerate without trying to kill him, again. Then again, he'd fucking love it if I _did_ try and kill him.

My clenched jaw must tip him off that I really don't want to go any further into this topic, and he leans forward to strip out of his black leather jacket as he speaks.

"So how the fuck did someone like you end up with that piece of shit job?" he asks, and I shrug and let myself relax back into the seat a little bit.

"It's not that bad," I protest, without any real conviction. At least I'm getting a decent wage, not that I really need the money. It's just a way to explain where my lack of financial problems comes from. Authorities tend to question it if you have money and no job, and I'd really prefer to avoid having anyone dig too deeply into my past. That could be bad.

"Yeah it is," Grimmjow answers just as quickly, discarding the jacket on the seat next to the door. "Your fucking temper, and a job doing customer service? That's a fucking disaster waiting to happen. How the hell'd you get into it?"

"I'm not..." I run a hand through my hair, sighing. "It's been a really shitty day, alright? I haven't lost my temper like that in a _really_ long time. I actually don't remember the last time."

Not since Urahara taught me control, definitely, so at least eleven years? High school was trying, but by the time I was a senior, I'd been in all but complete control of myself. I've slipped occasionally, hurt people, but never a complete loss of control like this day drove me to.

"I guess I'm special then," Grimmjow says with a smug grin, and I drop my hand back down with a snort.

"Yeah, that's _one_ word for it." I stare at him, at the glint in his eyes and his wide grin, and can't help asking, "Are you fucking proudof your ability to antagonize people?"

"Hell yes," he answers without hesitation, "easiest way to get someone to fight me is to piss them off."

"You're un-fucking-believable," I inform the blue-haired bastard, staring at him.

"Maybe to you," he responds, leaning forward onto his knees, "but I know _exactly_ what I am. I like the adrenaline of a good fight, the satisfaction in sore muscles the next day, the feel of matching up against someone else just as skilled as you are. _You_ know what that's like too, I'd fucking bet on it."

Yeah, I do.

It's almost as good as a really _great_ fuck, and sometimes it's better. There's nothing quite like testing yourself against someone else, falling into it and letting yourself become a creature of instinct. It's one of the best stress relief methods I know, if you've got a worthy opponent. They have to be able to stand up to you, to match you.

"Why the fuck would I change myself to make other people more comfortable? I _like_ who I am, fuck anybody else who doesn't."

"So, everyone?" I'm not going to let myself recognize the thread of envy in my chest, that he can just be himself – the self-admitted violent jackass – and not have to hide. The rest of us, the ones without ridiculous stacks of cash, don't get to do that shit.

His grin widens a little and he relaxes back against the seat. "Yeah, generally."

"Unbelievable," I repeat, shaking my head. "Do you have _any_ friends?"

"A few," he answers, sounding remarkably unconcerned with the idea. "There's a couple people who have stuck around." He flicks his fingers past me, and I follow the direction of the gesture to the black screen separating us from the driver's cab. "Il Forte, for one."

"Isn't he paid to?" I ask, one eyebrow rising, and Grimmjow laughs.

"My father found out a long time ago that he couldn't pay _anyone_ enough to stick around me if they didn't want to. Il Forte got this job because he was already hanging around me, not the other way around. So he gets paid to follow me around and try and keep me mostly out of trouble, which is what he was doing anyway."

Poor fucker, having to deal with this bastard all the time. What kind of patience does it take to handle Grimmjow twenty-four seven? Maybe it gets easier with prolonged exposure? Otherwise, what kind of person _chooses_ to be around Grimmjow so much?

"He doesn't even have to actually keep me out of trouble, he just has to _try_. My father knows better than trying to outright control me, so he just pays Il Forte to watch me and bribe the right people to keep me out of jail. It's a damn good deal for him."

I restrain the snort that wants to escape me, letting my arms finally come uncrossed and raising my right hand to rake through my hair. "And how often do you end up in jail?" I ask, morbid curiosity consuming me.

He gives a noncommittal shrug, grin widening a little. "Never, officially. Money's good for something after all."

I shake my head in disbelief, letting myself relax slightly against the comfortable seat. "And unofficially?"

"Once or twice a month, generally. People are stuck-up, you know?"

"More like you're a bastard," I counter, and he gives another shrug.

"Yeah, fair enough."

The partition between us and Il Forte whirs down, and I turn my head to look at him. "We've arrived," he says with a small smile. "I'll find somewhere to park, Grimmjow. Call me when you're done."

"Thanks," Grimmjow says easily, snagging his leather jacket with one hand and pushing open the door with the other. He climbs out, and I snag my sweatshirt and follow him. He offers me a hand, but I muster a glare and ignore it. I'm no woman in heels, I don't need help getting out of a car thank you _very_ much.

The entrance to the restaurant is surprisingly natural, a metal archway leading to glass doors, framed by a collection of artfully 'overgrown' plants. Grimmjow shuts the door to the limo, Il Forte almost immediately pulls away, and leads the way in without an ounce of hesitation. I follow, with a moment of hesitation. My past aside, I don't have much experience with the fancier side of restaurants, and I'm certainly not dressed for it. An employee steps forward and holds the glass door open for us with a friendly smile as we approach.

"Welcome to Cang's Steakhouse, sirs," he says, bowing his head as we pass.

Inside is a large lounge area, filled with couches and small coffee tables, and a single desk with two impeccably dressed employees behind it. There's two separate doors leading further in, one a grand double door of dark wood to the left of the desk, carved with interesting patterns that I could probably spend a dozen or so minutes looking at, and the other a more simple single door of the same color wood, to the right. There are a fair amount of people here, lounging, the women in beautiful evening gowns and the men in full suits. I think I recognize a few, from tabloids or shows, but resist the urge to look closer.

Yeah, definitely feeling under dressed.

Grimmjow walks up the desk, I follow him, and one employee turns to meet him. She briefly looks him over, not quite hiding the disdain, before offering a smile. "What can I do for you, sir?"

He gives her a confident grin, either not noticing or ignoring the condescension. "Two for a private room."

She pauses for a moment, glancing over at me, and I hold back a cringe. "Your name?" she asks Grimmjow.

"Grimmjow Jaegerjacques."

Just like that, everything changes. Her eyes widen briefly, before suddenly she's all smiles and friendliness. "Of course, Mr. Jaegerjacques, right away!" Christ, a name really does make all the difference in the world, it's kind of sickening.

She escorts us to the smaller door and through it, to a corridor with art lining the walls. There are doors on either wall, spaced about every fifteen feet, and she takes us to the fourth one on the right. She pushes it open, and Grimmjow strides in without giving her so much as a glance. I follow a little more slowly. Inside the room is a table pushed against the right wall, with a chair on either side, and a couch with a small coffee table in front of it against the other wall. It's lit by a beautiful chandelier hanging from the ceiling, more than high enough to not be in the way even for someone of Grimmjow's height.

"Please, make yourselves comfortable, sirs. Your server will be with you shortly."

She shuts the door, and Grimmjow turns to me. "Couch or table?" he asks, and I take another look at the couch and its accompanying table. I didn't even know that was an option, but it looks like a _fantastic_ option. More importantly, a comfortable one.

"Couch."

He heads for the far side, discarding his jacket over one of the table's chairs, and I follow his example. I drop my sweatshirt over the other chair and go for the edge of the couch closer to the door, opposite where he's sitting. I was right, it is _immensely_ comfortable. Grimmjow is grinning at me, smugness written all over his face.

"So?" he asks.

"So?" I ask right back.

"It's pretty fucking nice, right?" I snort and roll my eyes, sinking an inch or two farther into the cushions.

"Didn't we go over the whole 'money doesn't impress me' thing?"

"It seriously doesn't?" His voice is kind of surprised, disbelieving.

"No," I repeat, "it doesn't."

"Huh." I give him a weird look, confused, and he continues. "Lots of people _say_ money doesn't influence them, but they're all fucking liars. Take them somewhere fancy, drop some expensive gifts, and suddenly they're all fucking starry-eyed and begging to do whatever you want. It's such a fucking let down." He's looking off into the room, glaring at the carpet like it's personally offended him.

"You like that you can't influence me?" I ask slowly, and he looks back at me, instantly grinning.

"Hell yeah! It's fucking refreshing to meet someone I can't throw money at to get what I want. Finally a decent fucking challenge, you know?"

Actually, I do. Not in the romantic or sexual sense, but I get the appeal of finally having a challenge. I was trained so well, so thoroughly, that by the time I started fighting people, everything was easy. I still had decent fights with my trainers, but that was different. There was no thrill in that, no excitement, it was just to keep my skills fresh. I was better than everyone, including the people who'd taught me, and it got to be boring after a while.

"I would've been so fucking disappointed if you were like the rest of them."

There's a soft knock at the door before I get a chance to answer, and it swings open a moment later. A woman enters, with long blonde hair and light green eyes, wearing the same uniform as the other one. Black slacks, dress shoes, and a white dress shirt with black buttons. She gives the both of us a warm smile, just this side of flirtatious, and closes the door behind her.

"Welcome to Cang's Steakhouse, sirs. My name is Candice, I'll be your server this afternoon." She sets down the two menus in front of us, leaning over to give us both the best view of her cleavage, and I have to hold back a roll of my eyes. Surprisingly, when I glance at Grimmjow, he doesn't seem all that interested in the view being blatantly offered. She straightens back up, still smiling. "Can I get either of you a drink, to start with?"

Grimmjow speaks first, sprawled out on his corner of the couch. "Chilled sake," he states. So, he's got some kind of knowledge of Japan other than knowing the language, interesting. "You good with that?" he asks me, and I nod.

"Will do," she says brightly. "I'll be right back!"

The moment she's gone, Grimmjow snorts. "See? Just like that. What a fucking bore, just throwing it around like that." I stifle the sound of amusement that wants to leave me.

"Sake, huh?" I offer instead, and his grin returns, granted smaller than it was.

"You're originally Japanese, right? Best shot in the dark I could take for what you might want." Something obviously occurs to him, and he turns a little to face me more directly. "Hey, by the way, how'd you know that I was just fucking with you, earlier?"

"When Renji brought you in?" I ask, confirming, and he nods. "You've got an American accent when you speak in Japanese. It's slight, but it's there. I've got an ear for those kinds of things, thus the job."

"Is it just Japanese and English, or what?"

I can't help the bark of laughter that escapes me. Oh, if he knew how I'd been raised he'd understand how silly that question is. Japanese is my home language, true enough, and English was a secondary due to the frequency of its use, but I know way more than that.

"Hardly. I know Japanese, English, Spanish, French, Chinese - the Mandarin dialect, Russian, German, and ASL. I've got some basic knowledge of a bunch of others, but those are the ones I can speak fluently."

I get treated to a brief moment of wide blue eyes, which makes me all kinds of satisfied, before his grin returns and he laughs. "That's fucking impressive. I've just got English, Japanese, French, and German. I might have enough to ask for directions in a couple others, but nothing else." He snags his menu from the table, flipping it open. "I grew up traveling, what's your excuse?"

I lean forward, grabbing my own menu – and marveling for a second that it's actually bound with real leather – before answering. "College," I lie easily. "Like I said, I've got a talent for it. Seemed a natural choice."

Actually, Urahara had taught me most of them when I was pretty young, though it is true that I have a natural ear for learning languages. It came in handy with what I used to do.

"Then what the fuck are you doing as a translator for an airport? Shouldn't you be off in some high class diplomatic office?"

Yeah, if I actually wanted a career. I've got enough money to see me through the rest of my life, this is just something to keep me busy and give me a reason to be able to afford my own private apartment at my age. Might look a little suspicious if I didn't have a job, and I've got all the skills for this one.

I settle for snorting as I page through the menu. Luckily, this doesn't seem to be one of those 'elite' restaurants where you usually can't even decipher the titles of dishes. "Too young," I offer as an excuse, "and it wasn't a real impressive college. This job's for the _résumé, before I start looking at higher places."_

_"That many languages should get you in just about anywhere," Grimmjow says idly, glancing over at me with one raised eyebrow._

_It's a good thing that I've had three years to perfect my excuses. "Usually. But with my attitude, and looks? I need the résumé. You're one of the fucking rich and idle, what the fuck do you know about job hunting anyway?"_

I find something in the menu that sounds exceptionally tasty, a steak – which is what I'd wanted to begin with – topped with a teriyaki sauce, and covered in mushrooms, plus choice of sides. That sounds fucking fantastic, and I don't even have to bother looking at the price because the bastard's paying for me.

"Very little," Grimmjow admits, but before he can continue there's another soft knock and the door opens.

Candice enters, pushing the door open and then closed again with her hip, a small tray balanced in her hands. She moves closer, switching her grip on the tray to one hand as she leans over to place the sake and the two small cups in front of us. "Your drinks, sirs." She straightens up again, tucking the tray under one arm. "Are you ready to order?" she asks, procuring a small notepad and pen from _somewhere_.

I glance over at Grimmjow, who grins briefly and then rattles off some order that I manage to decipher as, basically, salmon. She nods, turning to me, and I give her my own order of the steak and my choice of sides – some kind of seasoned rice and a very fancily titled version of mashed potatoes. She retrieves the menus from us, smiling.

"I'll put that right in, sirs," she says brightly, and though there's a very obvious swing in her steps as she walks back out of the room, all it gets from Grimmjow is a quiet snort.

I don't get the opportunity to actually look at the brand of the sake, because Grimmjow has it in his hands nearly the moment the waitress has left the room. He fills one of the small cups, nudging it towards me, and then fills his own cup. He holds the cup of milky white alcohol up, grinning, and makes as if to toast me with it.

"To violent jackasses with money, huh?"

I snort, but give a tiny smile. Hell, at least the bastard's fucking honest. At least he knows what he is. "Yeah fucking right," I say flatly, tossing the glass cup of alcohol back. It's very good sake, admittedly. If I were a little less tired, I'd probably appreciate it a bit more. I drop the cup back onto the table, and Grimmjow fills it again.

This is probably a bad idea. I haven't eaten since really early this morning, at least three hours before my eight hour shift at work had even started, and my ruined lunch hadn't actually helped any. So while I've got a decent tolerance for alcohol normally, my totally empty stomach is going to lower that significantly.

…

Fuck it. Alcohol is _way_ too tempting right now, and if I do get something like tipsy before the food arrives, then actually eating that food should fix it. To hell with life, and social niceties, just for now. If I can just put everything but this alcohol and my imminent food out of my mind, I will be much happier.

To my absolute relief, we spend the next twenty or so minutes in more or less silence, demolishing the bottle of sake, interrupted only briefly by the waitress bringing in a small basket of some kind of cheesy bread rolls, napkins, and utensils for us. I can't say for sure how much of the bottle is gone by the time our actual food arrives, given that it's porcelain, but it's enough that I'm feeling the effects of it pretty strongly even past the four rolls I'd devoured.

The food is wonderful, amazing, almost blissful given how hungry I am. It's not till I reach the end of it, and I'm feeling moderately stuffed, that I lean back against the couch again. I close my eyes, just luxuriating in the leftover flavor in my mouth and the satisfying feeling of no longer having hunger clawing at my stomach. I _do_ feel better now, not nearly as exhausted. I'm still vaguely tired, but that's just from having worked eight solid hours, running around constantly, without a break. That's a tired I don't mind so much.

"So, are you going to let me take you home with me?" Grimmjow asks me, heat in his voice, and I flick my eyes back open to look over at him. He's grinning, of course, and the heat evident in his voice is also clear in his narrowed eyes.

Well, I _have_ managed to get past him just being a bastard. He's refreshingly honest, no pretenses or pretending he's something that he isn't, and there's no fucking denying that he's gorgeous. Yes, I would probably have a good time. But he was an ass, and it's been a hell of a day, and I'm just really not in the mood.

"No," I state plainly, watching his eyes flicker in disappointment, "but you can have my number."

The expression he gets is like the adult version of a little kid getting his absolute favorite present at Christmas. Pure excitement and the widest grin I've seen on him yet, but there's absolutely no way I could ever call it 'innocent'. I roll my eyes and watch as he all but scrambles for the phone shoved into his pocket. A moment later it's open, and he looks up at me with expectation. I give my head a little shake, wondering what the fuck I've gotten myself into, and rattle it off to him.

Am I going to regret this? Quite possibly. Whatever.

"Alright, bastard, take me home."

* * *

I stretch out on the couch, arms behind my head, as I grin at the ceiling. I've fucking done it, I've won dinner with the most fucking amazing person I've met in, probably, years. He's a fucking firecracker, who can probably kick my ass if he's got a cool head, with long legs and a tight ass, and the most wonderfully _alive_ brown eyes. How could this not be a good idea?

With any luck he'll let me take him home, and it's definitely a 'let'. If he doesn't want to go home with me, I'm damn well certain that he won't, and if I push any farther than he'll tolerate I'll end up with a fist in my face. How fucking great is that?

It's so fucking refreshing to meet somebody who will say 'no' to me, and will hit back just as hard, or harder, than I hit them. Everything I said he reacted to, every time I jabbed he snapped back just as ferociously. I hope to god he's just as fantastic when he's not pissed. I don't mind keeping him angry all the time, not like it'd be _hard_ , but most people tend to just throw their hands in the air and leave when I do that. If he's as fantastic when he's not pissed, then I can keep him around longer.

I hear the door to the break room, where he's been changing out of his uniform – and yes, I did entertain all kinds of fantastic images of that – and into normal clothes, open. I swing my gaze over, and involuntarily, my mouth twists into a wide grin. The brat, Ichigo, looks fucking fantastic.

He's wearing a tight black t-shirt, actually showing the musculature of his arms and clinging close to his muscled torso and narrow waist, unlike his uniform. That transitions into a pair of tight, dark grey, jeans, riding low on his hips by design and secured there by a tightly pulled belt with silver studs. They aren't skinny jeans, not quite, there's some loose fabric around his ankles, but it is wonderfully tight against the rest of his legs. He's got heavy black boots on, the well made ones that are almost hiking boots and lace up the front, and a black sweatshirt draped over his left arm. I can't see anything but his arms, but I'm absolutely sure now that the kid is nothing but muscle, and that thought stirs a hint of arousal. I'm no fucking slob, I keep in _damn_ good shape, but it's rare to find someone else with the same kind of standard.

He moves closer to me, the graceful edge to his walk even more obvious now that he's in form fitting clothes, and stops in front of me. After a few moments where I just continue to look, making no effort to hide my appreciation, he sharply demands, "So? You owe me dinner, bastard." There's a hint of exhaustion in his tone, but it's pretty well hidden.

I pull my gaze up, reluctantly, from where I'd been staring at the brat's crotch. He's facing the wrong direction for me to see his ass, so I'd been making do. "Where d'ya wanna go? I ask, meeting his narrowed brown eyes.

It's a few moments before he answers, voice quiet and lacking the snap of before. "Somewhere quiet, with good steak." Oh, I know _just_ the place. If that won't fucking impress him, nothing will.

"Done," I state, getting to my feet in one smooth motion that brings us within a foot of each other, before he steps back. "My car?" His jaw tightens, cluing me into the fact that he's not too thrilled with that idea.

"Sure, if you supply the money for a cab if I want one."

"Done," I answer instantly. "You good to go?" He nods, and I reach down and retrieve my phone out of one of the pockets in my jeans. One of the brat's eyebrows rises, and after a moment I catch the look. Oh, right, he's probably wondering why I don't have one of the newer phones. This is an old phone, one of the thicker ones, but still _totally_ serviceable. "I kept breaking them," I explain, "fucking fragile pieces of shit."

You'd think that with all the fucking money they charge for the newest generation of phones – not that I give half a fuck about the price – they'd be just a little more resilient. If I can't fucking drop my phone on the street without shattering the front, what's the fucking point in it?

I navigate my way to Il Forte's contact information, hitting the command to call him and raising the phone to my ear. It rings three times before my friend, and family assigned escort, picks up.

" _Yes, Grimmjow,"_ Il Forte starts without letting me speak, _"all our things are recovered and in the car. Are you ready to leave?"_

The grin that I'd dropped at the reminder of the idiot newer phones returns, and I glance briefly over at the kid, raking my gaze over him one more time. "Yeah, and I've got company." Fantastic company, just fucking wait till Il Forte meets this guy.

" _Figures,"_ Il Forte says quietly, probably to himself. I can just imagine the rub of his hand over his eyes that always accompanies him saying things like that. _"I'll pick you both – or is it 'all'? - up at the front. Should I be expecting any angry followers?"_ There's a note of amused resignation in his voice, and it makes my grin a little wider. Il Forte is never going to forget the one time I led three separate, exceedingly angry, boyfriends to his car following their wayward significant others. Totally not my fault that all I had to do was wink and grin and the significant others were all over me. No goddamn loyalty there.

"Not this time, and it's just both." I would be _beyond_ shocked if the brat had a boy or girlfriend, though it's possible he's got some admirers he just doesn't know about. He's quite the fucking prize after all. "See you soon." I end the call and shut the phone, shoving it back into my pocket before looking over at my newest obsession. "Lemme snag my jacket."

He turns and heads for the door, not waiting for me, and I quickly grab my leather jacket from the back of the armchair and follow him, shrugging into it as I move. I don't mind, it gives me a great chance to study his ass in the tight jeans, and it's a damn fine ass. He does look back briefly as I catch up to him at the door out into the staff corridors, and I offer him a grin, but he doesn't call me on it. Consequently, I spend the next however many minutes admiring the sway of his hips as he walks and the way the jeans hug the curves of his ass and thighs.

He pauses upon opening a door out to the main lobby, and I raise my gaze to look out over his shoulder at the crowd of angry people. It's nasty, but not nearly as bad as some of the crowds I've seen. This isn't a mob yet, these people probably aren't going to do any kind of real violence unless something _really_ provokes them. Still, I can see why the brat's hesitating. He's not the tallest, and though he's eye-catching, he's not exactly intimidating. Ha, fucking watch this. I step past him, resisting the urge to grope him as I pass – somehow I don't think he'd appreciate that like I would – and head towards the doors to the outside of the airport.

Now me, _I'm_ intimidating. I paste a wide grin on my face, showcasing my sharp canines, and stalk right through the middle of them with my hands in my pockets. Everyone gets out of my way. Not much, they don't dive for cover or quickly decide they want to be elsewhere, but they shift to make room or take unnecessary steps away from me. Ichigo follows behind me, taking advantage of the space I leave behind, and I resist making a smug comment. That can wait, this is just a party trick.

The doors to outside part automatically, a smaller crowd outside – and these ones are a little closer to violence than the ones inside – gathered around the pickup zone for vehicles. I glance along the line of vehicles and quickly pick out the limo at one end, Il Forte leaning casually, but clearly defensively, against the passenger door. As I stride towards it, his scanning brown eyes – a darker shade than Ichigo the strawberry's, and much more detached – focus on me, and he straightens up off the limo as he gives me a very thin smile. He opens the door to the back of the limo, and I shoulder past the last few people at the front of the crowd to get to him.

I lean against the opposite side of the door from Il Forte, looking back at the strawberry and offering him a wide grin. "Ladies first," I tease, only half joking, and he gives me an absolutely murderous glare that I pay no actual attention to. If he wanted to punch me, he'd fucking do it.

"You're a dick," he snaps instead, and I see Il Forte's eyebrows rise in clear surprise.

"Finally," my friend comments, glancing at me, "someone else who recognizes you for the bastard that you are, Grimmjow." Il Forte is speaking in the tone he uses for people who he doesn't know, but likes, and I smother the urge to do a little dance of glee. Yes! Il Forte likes him! "I am Il Forte, Grimmjow's all but official babysitter." My friend extends his hand, smile widening a touch, and the strawberry takes it without hesitation, but with a wince.

"Christ, I'm sorry. I'm Ichigo."

I give a small scowl that's more show than anything else, I know Il Forte way too well to really take offense from anything he says. He laughs and shakes the brat's hand before releasing it. "Ah, you've spent more than five minutes in the lout's company, then."

Ichigo gives a tiny smile, and it forces the scowl off my face to make way for a grin. That's fucking great. The strawberry doesn't lose anything when his scowl eases, when he smiles. It's the tiniest quirking of lips, but at least it's fucking _real_.

"If you know," Il Forte continues, "why _are_ you here?"

The brat shrugs, glancing over at me. "He's buying me dinner."

Il Forte arches an eyebrow, looking over at me skeptically, and I only let my grin widen a little further. "Hm." It's been a long time since I bothered to do anything more than take someone home and fuck them, and the strawberry might not know that, but Il Forte does. "Well," Il Forte starts, looking back over at Ichigo, "regardless of Grimmjow's lack of tact, please make yourself comfortable. The sooner we're out of here, the better, as far as I'm concerned."

The brat turns to me, meeting my eyes for a moment, and then raises an eyebrow and pointedly flicks his eyes to the open door. Ah, I get it. Alright, fair enough, I've got no problem eating my own words. Besides, this gives me _opportunities_. I shrug, my grin twisting a little as ideas come to mind, and easily slide into the limo. The time growing up that I didn't spend in hotels, or planes, or various homes my father owns across the world, I spent in limos. My father is kind of an ostentatious bastard, and now I'm just used to them.

I position myself at the curve of the seat, right where the space is most limited, and wait. Sure enough, when Ichigo starts to enter, he pauses for a moment and glares at me, eyes flicking over the interior. After that brief pause he pushes his way in, edging past me, forcibly and fantastically close, and watching my hands with an expression that's somewhere between angry and wary. I keep my hands to myself, despite the desire to do otherwise, and the desire to tug him down over my lap as he passes. Much as I love fighting, I'm not a huge fan of broken noses.

He sits down a decent ways from me, four feet or so, and sets his sweatshirt down on the seat between us. His arms cross, a clearly defensive bit of subconscious body language, and he remains on edge. Whether the cause is me, lingering anger, or unease from the limo, I don't know and I really don't fucking care. Il Forte shuts the door, and a moment later I dimly hear him open the driver's door and slide inside. The limo purrs to life beneath us, all but silent, and the black mirror between us slides down.

Normally, Il Forte and I don't even bother keeping it up. I'm alone back here most of the time, so we talk as he drives, but I know that since I have the brat back here he'll put it back up once he's determined our location. He gives me my space when I'm 'wooing', usually.

"So, where am I headed?" he asks, meeting my gaze in the mirror.

"Cang's Steakhouse," I answer, and swap my gaze over to the strawberry just in time to see his eyes widen briefly before the reaction's gone. Yeah, I'm fucking good.

"Alright, settle in, Grimmjow, Ichigo." The black divider slides back up, cutting us off, and the limo starts to move forward.

"Impressed yet?" I ask smugly, and he looks back at me with something like disdain in his eyes. Now that's fucking interesting.

"Yeah right," he snaps at me with a snort, eyes narrowing. "You can impress me by not being a violent jackass, and by keeping your fucking hands to yourself unless you want me to break something." Now there's a promise that I've got no fucking doubt he'll keep.

"Consider me warned," I say with a grin, kind of amused by the confusion that spreads in his eyes.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" he asks plainly, only a tired confusion in his tone.

I laugh, unable to help myself. I just fucking laid it out there, didn't I? But still he has to ask. "I'm a violent jackass," I say once I manage to cut off my laughter, "that's fucking easy." Now, now is the _perfect_ fucking time. Time to give him a taste of what I'm offering.

I lean forward, allowing my grin to turn devious and _wicked._ "But I'm honest, and I'm fucking _gorgeous_ ," I let my voice deepen, let it promise, "and I'm so fucking _fantastic_ in bed that you won't want anyone else when I'm done with you." True fact, that. I've actually had one night stands call me up and complain that I fucking ruined them, that sex with whoever the hell they're fucking now just isn't satisfying enough. I'm fucking amazing, and I know it.

I hear his breath catch in his throat, and watch red tint his cheeks as his eyes widen. Yeah, that's a common occurrence. I've had quite a few people tell me that just my voice, when I put any actual intent into it, made them want everything I was offering. I once made some woman orgasm just from fucking talking in her ear, though granted she was one of the easiest to get off in general of anyone I've slept with. Still, made me strut around for almost a week.

I wonder what the brat will be like in bed? Will he fight me, claw and bite, and make me work for every inch he gives me? Or will he be one of the ones that's all temper and fire up till you get them into the bed, and then they just melt and give into passion? Both are awesome, but I hope it's the first one. It's awesome to see somebody else walk around with my marks on them, but it's fucking fantastic to have theirs on me too, when I'm actually interested.

Oh, the things I could do with someone like this. It's not often I meet someone who can match me, _and_ is attractive. Pinning somebody's hands down is just a thing, but with him? I doubt he'll take that, in fact I'd bet that the minute I start pinning him I'll end up on my back. Usually, I don't allow that, I'm not big on people being on top of me, but I'd let him do it just to see him arch over me.

I rake my gaze over him, imagining the lean muscles and the tanned skin under the clothes, and can't help the soft growl that leaves my throat. I see him twitch, the beginnings of a shiver before he shuts it down, and raise my gaze to meet his eyes again.

"The fucking things I'd like to do with you," I purr, "fuck you so hard you'll feel the ache for fucking _days_ and beg for more." That's one of my personal favorite past times, making my bed partners beg. Not in a sadistic, power trip sort of way, but just because if they want more badly enough to beg then I'm fucking doing something right. It's satisfying.

He swallows, and my eyes snap down to fix on his throat as his Adam's apple bobs up and down. I could leave some _very_ nice marks on that neck. I bet it'd look fantastic covered in hickeys, just like my back looks fantastic covered in claw marks.

"I don't beg for fucking anybody," he snaps, and I raise my eyes back up to meet his, "and I'm not going to just fucking lay there and take it." He's gotten his confidence back, recovered, and the _challenge_ in those eyes is amazing. He's definitely the first type. He'll fight me right up till he's too fucked out to even move, and even then he won't give in, he'll just snarl and glare with tired, satisfied, eyes. I fucking _love_ that, those are _so_ rare.

"Where's the fun if you do that?" I ask with a brief laugh, leaning back against my seat and letting him have his personal space back. "You'll make me fight for it, right? Outside of fucking you, that'll be the best fucking part." I know I'm being arrogant, but I've got reason to be. _No one_ has ever said no to me, not anyone I really wanted anyway. I've had one or two ask _me_ , and then get put off by my attitude, but I couldn't give a fuck about them.

His jaw clenches, anger blooming in his eyes, and I take the hint. Alright, no more pushing for now. Let him calm down, move the conversation somewhere else till it's safe again and he's not going to straight out deck me. Not that I'd mind if he did, particularly, but fighting in the back of a moving limo is not a fun experience.

"So how the fuck did someone like you end up with that piece of shit job?" I ask, leaning forward a little to pull my arms out of my leather jacket. It'd been kind of cold outside, but the limo is a contained space and it's fairly warm. Besides, having it off only leaves me in my white tank-top, and that shows off my arms.

"It's not that bad," he says with a shrug and no real conviction, leaning back into the seat just slightly.

"Yeah it is," I answer immediately, dropping my jacket onto the section of seat between me and the door. "Your fucking temper, and a job doing customer service? That's a fucking disaster waiting to happen." I don't know how long the brat's been there, but if it's anything upwards of a few months I'd be impressed.

"I'm not..." he protests, sighing and raising one hand to run through his bright orange hair. "It's been a really shitty day, alright? I haven't lost my temper like that in a _really_ long time." His eyes narrow a little as he obviously think about it, before he continues, "I actually don't remember the last time."

"I guess I'm special then." I grin as he drops his hand and snorts, unable to help the satisfaction in me. Sure, the shitty day helped, but I'm pretty damn sure I could have gotten the brat to snap anyway. I'm just that damn good.

"Yeah, that's _one_ word for it. Are you fucking proud of your ability to antagonize people?"

Does the kid seriously have to fucking ask?

"Hell yes, easiest way to get someone to fight me is to piss them off." It's all about knowing _how_ to piss people off, too. Most people will do just about anything not to get violent, so you have to know _just_ the right way to piss them off. Do it too subtly and they'll leave first, too quickly and they might break into tears or stomp off. You've gotta hit just that right mix between murderous and the fight or flight response. I'm an expert at it.

"You're un-fucking-believable," he says incredulously, and I lean forward onto my knees to answer him.

"Maybe to you, but I know _exactly_ what I am." I'd known since before Aizen picked me up, when I was barely five years old. The first time some bully had tried to take advantage of my being smaller, and I'd beaten him all to hell for daring. Aizen hadn't tried to quell it, but instead was quietly insistent that if I was going to get myself into fights all the time, I was going to know _how_ to fight first. I might not like my bastard of a father all that much, though he _is_ family, but I can't do anything but respect him. He's kicked my ass more times than I can count, without any real effort. Every time I'd think I was done, that there was no more to be learned, and tell him so, he'd casually take me down and pin me, without a drop of sweat or the tiniest disruption of his small smile.

Yeah, my father's fucking scary.

"I like the adrenaline of a good fight," I continue, "the satisfaction in sore muscles the next day, the feel of matching up against someone else just as skilled as you are. _You_ know what that's like too, I'd fucking bet on it." He doesn't deny it, gaze shifting to the side with an almost longing look. I fucking knew it, the brat's just _dying_ for a good fight, or a good fuck. "Why the fuck would I change myself to make other people more comfortable? I _like_ who I am, fuck anybody else who doesn't."

"So, everyone?" he asks, returning his gaze to mine.

I lean back against the seat again, satisfied I've made my point. "Yeah, generally."

"Unbelievable," he repeats quietly, shaking his head. "Do you have _any_ friends?"

Well, yeah. Il Forte, for one. Stark's pretty cool, and so is Halibel, but they're not _exactly_ friends so much as just cool people to be around. But so what? Il Forte's a good friend, and why would I fucking need anyone else? Why would I _need_ anyone at all?

"A few. There's a couple people who have stuck around. Il Forte, for one." I flick my fingers, gesturing towards the front of the limo, and he glances that way before returning his gaze to me.

"Isn't he paid to?" he asks with one raised eyebrow, and I can't help laughing.

Yes, but also, so much no.

"My father found out a long time ago that he couldn't pay _anyone_ enough to stick around me if they didn't want to." Not to mention that if _I_ didn't like them, I either drove them fucking nuts, ditched them at the first opportunity, or put them in hospitals if they really pissed me off. "Il Forte got this job because he was already hanging around me, not the other way around. So he gets paid to follow me around and try and keep me mostly out of trouble, which is what he was doing anyway."

Il Forte has been following me around ever since I met him, when I was around fourteen. I'd mostly settled in the New York house then, and I liked him enough that if I _did_ go anywhere else, I made damn sure he came with me. He'd been in an orphanage, so it wasn't like he really had anyone watching out for him anyway. I'm half surprised my father didn't straight out adopt him, like the rest of us kids. Stark, the oldest of us, is actually his by some woman we know nothing about, but the rest of us are adopted.

"He doesn't even have to actually keep me out of trouble, he just has to _try_. My father knows better than trying to outright control me," the few times he'd tried that had _not_ gone well, even if I appreciate the skills now, "so he just pays Il Forte to watch me and bribe the right people to keep me out of jail. It's a damn good deal for him."

All the money he could ever want, or need, getting to spend time with the utterly awesome me, and getting the pleasure of comforting any and all women – or men – that I reject. I know for a fact that he gets laid even more often than I do.

"And how often do you end up in jail?" the strawberry asks, his arms uncrossing as he once again raises a hand to rake through his hair.

I give a small shrug, my grin twitching a little wider. "Never, officially. Money's good for something after all." When you have as much as I do, and were raised around it, money really stops having a value for you. It's something you use, something you throw around, but it doesn't actually feel like it has any value to it.

He shakes his head, disbelief clear in his eyes, and I watch him relax a little bit into the seat with no small satisfaction. "And unofficially?"

"Once or twice a month, generally," I say carelessly. "People are stuck-up, you know?" Most of the charges people try and pin me with would never have stuck anyway. I provoke, but I let other people throw the first punches. Aizen drilled that into me too. If I was going to provoke fights, I was going to let other people take the blame for it. I don't totally like it, but it's a decent measure of if they're really going to fight me or not, so whatever.

"More like you're a bastard."

I shrug again. "Yeah, fair enough."

I feel the car pull to a stop, and the window between us and Il Forte slides down, the brat turns to look at him. "We've arrived," he informs us, giving a small smile. He's clearly testing to see how badly I've pissed the strawberry off, to check my chances, but I doubt the brat knows that. Il Forte, unlike me, is very subtle. "I'll find somewhere to park, Grimmjow. Call me when you're done."

Yeah, he's going to go off and find his own dinner, but not more than a couple blocks away. I know what goes on when he leaves me with someone. He stares at his phone while he does whatever else, waiting for the call from the police station.

"Thanks." I snag my jacket and push the door of the limo open, climbing out. I offer the brat a hand, limos are close to the ground after all, but he just glares at me as he gets out, sweatshirt over one arm again.

I shut the door behind him, Il Forte wastes _no_ time leaving us, and turn to lead the way into the restaurant. The brat's a step or two behind me, maybe mildly uncomfortable or maybe just looking around, but I'm sure he's following. One of the employees, all dressed in formal uniforms, holds the door open for us with a friendly smile.

"Welcome to Cang's Steakhouse, sirs," he says as we pass.

I walk straight up to the desk, leaning slightly against it and ignoring the rest of the lobby, and wait for one of the two employees to turn to me. I see the strawberry come up beside me, head turning to survey the inside of the room.

"What can I do for you, sir?" the employee asks me, and I ignore her glance up and down my frame. Judge me by my looks if you want to, bitch, but watch me mention my name and you'll start singing a different fucking tune.

I give her a grin. "Two for a private room." She pauses, looking over at Ichigo, and that pisses me off just a little bit.

"Your name?" she asks me.

"Grimmjow Jaegerjacques."

Her eyes widen as the realization of who I am, of how much money I have, and who my father is comes over her, and then she's all smiles. Bitch. "Of course, Mr. Jaegerjacques, right away!"

The name might be useful in getting what I want, but I fucking hate the pandering bullshit I get when I use it. Like they think if they kiss enough ass and flirt with me blatantly enough that I might just decide to hand them a wad of cash. Fucking suck ups.

I follow her to the smaller door, to the private rooms, and into the fourth one on the right. I've been to Cang's a few times before, so I don't bother looking at the art. Seen it all before, and I'm not much for art anyway. Ichigo _is_ looking around, but I doubt he's ever been here before, so that's understandable.

"Please, make yourselves comfortable, sirs. Your server will be with you shortly."

I turn to Ichigo as the door shuts, leaving us alone. "Couch or table?" I ask. I like the couch better, personally, it's damn comfortable, but if he wants to eat at the table I'll go with that.

He glances briefly at the table before answering, "Couch."

I turn and head around to the back side of the couch, flinging my jacket over one of the two chairs by the table before settling into the corner of the couch farthest from the door. Ichigo follows my example, dropping his sweatshirt over the other chair and taking the corner closest to the door. He sinks into it, looking exceedingly satisfied at how deep into the cushions he goes, and his eyes close for just a moment. The couch isn't big, so there's only maybe a foot and a half between us, and I have to resist the urge to slide over and push him back against it.

No, no broken noses. I am _not_ going to win this one over by being forceful, I've got to coax.

"So?" I ask, grinning at the brat.

"So?" he repeats.

"It's pretty fucking nice, right?" Maybe I've been here, and places like here, too many times, maybe I'm deaf to its charms, but I know most people aren't. He, however, only snorts and rolls his eyes, dropping a little further into the couch.

"Didn't we go over the whole 'money doesn't impress me' thing?" he says, and I just sit there for a second.

Wait, really? I mean all kinds of people say that, to seem cooler or resistant, but it never fucking means anything. Everyoneis influenced by money, fucking _everyone,_ with maybe the exception of other people just as rich. Is Ichigo seriously not impressed by my wealth?

"It seriously doesn't?" I ask, not believing him.

"No, it doesn't." He gives me a weird look, obviously confused, and I give a small shrug.

"Lots of people _say_ money doesn't influence them, but they're all fucking liars. Take them somewhere fancy, drop some expensive gifts, and suddenly they're all fucking starry-eyed and begging to do whatever you want." I drop my gaze to the carpet, glaring at the reminder of the sour memories. "It's such a fucking let down."

"You like that you can't influence me?" Ichigo asks haltingly, and that brings a grin back to my face as I look back over at him.

"Hell yeah!" If this is real, if he's seriously not influenced by my status, then that's the best fucking thing in the world. "It's fucking refreshing to meet someone I can't throw money at to get what I want. Finally a decent fucking challenge, you know? I would've been so fucking disappointed if you were like the rest of them." This means I'll have to convince Ichigo to share my bed, or spar with me again, purely based on me, and that's fucking great. It means everything he does, everything he says, is real. He's not pandering to me, he's not going to agree because I'm rich, or sorta famous, and can give him whatever he wants. He'll agree because I'm fucking fantastic, and I'll give him the night of his life.

There's a soft knock at the door, and I raise my gaze to it as our server enters. She's not one I've seen before, but she's decently pretty enough. She's got long blonde hair, light green eyes, decently sized boobs, and her uniform is just tight enough to catch her in all the right places. She gives us both, though more so to me, a flirtatious smile and closes the door.

"Welcome to Cang's Steakhouse, sirs. My name is Candice, I'll be your server this afternoon." She moves towards us and sets the menu down, leaning over so her boobs are very blatantly visible, and my grin drops. "Can I get either of you a drink, to start with?"

Lets see... Well, Ichigo's clearly Japanese in origin, and was raised there if his barely accented English is anything to go by. I can take a shot at that.

"Chilled sake," I order, looking over at the brat. He doesn't look surprised, more like interested. "You good with that?" He nods.

"Will do," the boobs say brightly. "I'll be right back!"

The moment the door closes again I let loose the snort I've been holding in. "See? Just like that. What a fucking bore, just throwing it around like that."

"Sake, huh?" Ichigo asks, and I can see the tension in his shoulders ease some. My mouth twists back into my grin, satisfied at my ability to not only piss the kid off, but also relax him.

"You're originally Japanese, right? Best shot in the dark I could take for what you might want." Speaking of Japanese, there's something I've been meaning to ask that had slipped my mind. "Hey, by the way, how'd you know that I was just fucking with you, earlier?" He'd nailed me as speaking English the second I'd talked, and I know my Japanese is fucking flawless, I've almost spent more time there than in America.

"When Renji brought you in?" I nod, vaguely assuming that has to have been the red-headed guard. "You've got an American accent when you speak in Japanese," he informs me. "It's slight, but it's there. I've got an ear for those kinds of things, thus the job."

Seriously? I had no fucking clue, in fact I was damn sure I had no accent. I sure as hell don't _look_ Japanese, but I thought I could speak the language without getting pinned.

"Is it just Japanese and English, or what?" Does the airport have all kinds of translators, is he just one in a long list? Japanese travel a decent amount, but it seems like that wouldn't be enough to keep him employed.

He gives a bark of laughter, and a tiny shake of his head. "Hardly. I know Japanese, English, Spanish, French, Chinese – the Mandarin dialect, Russian, German, and ASL. I've got some basic knowledge of a bunch of others, but those are the ones I can speak fluently."

Holy _fuck,_ and I thought _I_ knew too many languages. Hot damn. I can't help laughing.

"That's fucking impressive. I've just got English, Japanese, French, and German. I might have enough to ask for directions in a couple others, but nothing else." I was originally from Germany, and then when Aizen adopted me I spent my time wandering around with him, mostly in America, Japan, and France. "I grew up traveling, what's your excuse?" I ask, leaning forward to grab my menu from the table. I'm pretty sure I already know what I want, but I'll check to see if there's anything new, just in case.

"College," he says, taking his own menu from the table. "Like I said, I've got a talent for it. Seemed a natural choice."

"Then what the fuck are you doing as a translator for an airport?" I ask, looking over at him. "Shouldn't you be off in some high class diplomatic office?" Not that I think the kid would fit in very well there, but with that kind of a grasp on language...

He snorts. "Too young, and it wasn't a real impressive college. This job's for the résumé, before I start looking at higher places."

Yeah right. If this kid wanted a job, I'm sure he could fucking get one. He doesn't _want_ to go any higher. "That many languages should get you in just about anywhere," I say, calling him on his bullshit with one raised eyebrow.

"Usually," the brat admits. "But with my attitude, and looks? I need the résumé. You're one of the fucking rich and idle, what the fuck do you know about job hunting anyway?"

Yeah, there's not anything new in the menu that's better than my standby. "Very little," I concede. Before I can continue going after the kid for his bullshit excuses, the door opens and Candice reenters. She's holding a small tray with the sake balanced on it, along with two small glass cups.

"Your drinks, sirs," she informs us, leaning over – again with the obvious shot of boobs – and setting the contents of the tray down in front of us. The moment she's straight again she pulls a small notepad and pen from inside her cleavage, asking, "Are you ready to order?"

Ichigo looks over at me, a questioning look in his gaze, and I briefly grin at him before turning to Candice and letting the order roll of my tongue with the ease of practice. It's a damn fancy title, but it just translates into 'salmon', more or less. Damn good salmon, but salmon. Ichigo goes after me, putting in a request for one of the nicest steaks they have.

She takes both our menus, smiling and still clearly attempting some kind of flirtation with me. "I'll put that right in, sirs." The swing in her step is obvious, and forces a quiet snort from me. I hadn't shown any fucking interest in her blatant attempt to get me to look at her breasts, what the fuck does she think swinging her ass is going to do?

The second she's out of the room I reach for the sake, pouring it into first Ichigo's glass, then mine. It's considered rude to pour your own drinks in Japan, but this is America and somehow I don't think the strawberry's going to call me on it. Somehow I doubt he'd even pour my glass if I gave him the chance.

I set the porcelain bottle back down and pick up my glass as he does, grinning and holding it up in a toast. "To violent jackasses with money, huh?"

Ichigo snorts, but his lips quirk into a tiny smile. Fucking, victory. "Yeah fucking right," he says before downing the glass, voice flat and without any of the snap he's been using all evening. Hey, in this case that's an improvement. I finish my own glass, and reach to refill the strawberry's as he sets it down. Alcohol is the supreme loosener of tongues, and if I can get the strawberry tipsy that'll probably be fantastic.

I resist the urge to talk, to pry, to badger, letting the brat down glass after glass while we wait for food. He doesn't show any obvious signs of being intoxicated, but he does seem to heavily appreciate the silence. That's understandable, I imagine he hasn't had a moment of it since he stepped into work. Candice delivers a small basket of bread rolls first, and Ichigo wastes no time digging into those. He finishes off four, and we polish off almost all of the bottle of sake, before our food arrives.

The salmon is delicious, it always fucking is, but it's hard to concentrate with Ichigo making the fucking _noises_ he is. I don't know if he has any idea he's doing it, but he makes these tiny moans every time he takes a bite, and they're _more_ than distracting. It's a damn good thing I've got pretty good control of myself, and am mildly wary of his fists, or I'd be fucking jumping his bones right now. I manage to finish my salmon a few minutes before he's done with his meal, leaning back against the couch and just watching him.

"So," I start a few seconds after he's leaned back, looking sated and all but molded into the cushions, "are you going to let me take you home with me?" I can't help the heat in my voice, - fucking _noises_ , man - not that I'd want to, or the grin that's overtaken my face.

He pauses for a few moments, studying me, before answering. "No," - fuck! Really? - "but you can have my number."

_**Yes!** _

I immediately reach for my phone, flicking it open and navigating to the contacts list as fast as humanly possible. I look back up at him the second I have it, fingers poised over the buttons and ready to dial in whatever he gives me. He shakes his head, slight amusement in his eyes, and lists off the numbers. Let's just save that as 'The Strawberry', and never let him see it. Or maybe, calculatingly let him see it so he'll start another fight. Yeah!

"Alright, bastard," he says with an edge of humor, "take me home."


End file.
